A Snake in the Grass
by WendyNerd
Summary: Sansa arrives at court to formally annul her marriage years after the events of AFFC and ADWD. Once again, she is drawn into the court life of danger, politics, and intrigue that pulls her into an unexpected royal match. A collaboration with Bluecichlid Prologue is non-linear.


Prologue:

**Fourth day of the First Moon, 306 AL**

Jon stared into his cup of Arbor Gold and very decidedly not at her. Sansa kept her smile plastered to her face as she looked around at all the revelers gathered to celebrate their wedding. So few of the faces were friendly. She wished for the sight of two faces in particular, but she knew they were gone and she could not will them back. The bitter faces of men like Daven Cerwyn and Dormer Ryswell, who had sought her for themselves, were no comfort. They were here for the wine and the chance to grope her at the bedding.

She was alone.

And yet, she could feel so many eyes on her: Tyrells, Martells, Northerners, the king. They all were likely thinking along the same lines. They have no interest. There will be no consummation. This match shall be as valid as her last. They're both still ripe for the taking.

Only the dragon queen seemed to watch them with hopeful eyes. The queen, and her Hand, who seemed to be growing frustrated with Jon's reluctance to even look at his bride.

Sansa took meticulous care with her appearance, assisted by the queen herself and all the best dressmakers across the Targaryen Empire. She drew every eye in the city except her new husband's. Now she regretted it. He's so afraid of staring too long that he won't even spare me a glance. She wanted to think that was it.

One pair of eyes was still on her, the gaze she hated most. Feared most. Sansa shivered. Images of gold braids flashed before her eyes. She couldn't eat. If she ate, she'd throw up all over her white silk.

Sansa glanced nervously at Jon once more. Gods, look at me. Please. They have to know this marriage is valid. Margaery Tyrell is two tables down. Lack of consummation resulted in her last marriage being set aside. And mine. I can't have this dissolved.

Summoning her courage, she reached over to Jon and placed her hand over his. He nearly jumped out of his skin. To his credit, at the very least, he kept her hand in his. But instead of meeting her eyes, he focused on her hand, rubbing the back of it with an uncertain thumb, seemingly fascinated by her sapphire ring.

Sansa looked up and caught the queen's violet eyes, which were sympathetic but slightly incredulous. She could feel the questions going off in her head. Why this? Lords from half the realm were courting you. Trystane Martell might have made you the Princess of Dorne. You had the chance to heal the wounds of Robert's Rebellion, and cement the peace. Instead you have scorned him and infuriated the king, passed over your brother's banner men, and forsook great alliances, all for a marriage to a man you do not love. Why would you choose this?

The glare of the gold plate, jewelry, and torches were starting to bother her eyes. Her last wedding stayed omnipresent in her mind. I will not ask to dance this time. I will not allow any man but my husband the chance to put their hands on me.

Her breath caught as she saw Tyrion limp over, Lady Lyria holding his hand. Oh no. He's going to say something humiliating. No. No. No. Stay away. You can't be here. We don't need to remind people how my last marriage ended up. Don't goad Jon, Tyrion. Please.

The Hand of the King either didn't notice the panicked look in her eyes or chose to ignore it as he came forward. "Congratulations, Your Grace," he said to Jon, "Your new wife is lovely. Glad to see she finally has a husband worthy of her after suffering me all those years. A man couldn't ask for a more beautiful bride."

The restraint and courtesy of this shocked Sansa more than the lewdest jape could have. Jon tensed up, looking nervous. "You're very kind, Lord Tyrion."

"No, just observant. She was fruit too high on the tree for me to take, I'm afraid. It's about time she found a man tall enough to pluck her while she's still ripe."

There it is. Sansa blushed. She felt oddly grateful for this, though. Jon went scarlet and cast a harsh eye upon the Hand. "I'd ask that you guard your words, My Lord."

"Forgive my betrothed, Your Grace," Lady Lyria cut in, "But I hope you object more to the clumsy metaphor than Lord Tyrion's point. We fear you spent so much time looking at her hands that you've failed to notice the rest of her. A sad thing, when your bride looks so lovely. Or do you disagree?"

"Of course she looks lovely, My Lady," Jon replied, finally giving Sansa a reluctant look. His eyes locked on her then. He seemed to struggle. "She's… She's beautiful."

"Oh look, Darling, he noticed," Tyrion said, his eyes wide in mock surprise. "It seems we've accomplished our objective. Come now, my dear. Lady Sansa already had to suffer through one wedding looking too long at this face. Now that her new husband has deigned to meet her eyes, she'd most likely prefer to spend this one looking into his. Let's distract them no longer. Young love must flourish."

When Menford Velaryon raised a toast, Jon tore his eyes away from her. He tried to keep his eyes averted the rest of the evening, but kept stealing small glances. Sansa tried to puff out her chest a bit when she caught him looking, and kept her smiles sweet. Few returned them.

The greatest test came when the king and his Martell cousin came forward. Sansa felt herself deflate. The smiles on both faces were false, each looking at Jon with varying degrees of resentment. Sansa shifted towards Jon as Aegon congratulated his brother with muted enthusiasm, and kissed her fingertips.

"I wish you the best, Goodsister," the king said in a clipped tone

"I thank you, Your Grace. You are too kind."

Some of the Northmen came forward to offer their begrudging congratulations as well. Daven Cerwyn, his mouth in a hard line, congratulated her on "settling with a piece of home."

Sansa found herself almost wishing Tyrion was with her again. Tyrion's the reason you're in this mess. You'd be feasting at Highgarden, laughing with Willas Tyrell if not for him. But at least Tyrion knew the truth.

When the cry went up for the bedding, she tensed. Jon gave her a desperate look. He'd asked her several times if she wanted him to object. She told him no. They need to know we're wedded and bedded. It has to happen. Sansa would let him take her right on the banquet table if it meant validating her marriage in the eyes of everyone there.

Sansa tried not to sob out loud as she felt the hands on her. Bile rose to her throat when Aegon tore away her bodice. A cheer went up as her breasts spilled out. When she saw the men gather, and the hands reached for her, she froze up entirely, unable to move or speak or respond in any way. She wanted to kick and scream. I'll be broken before we get to the bedchamber.

Before long, even Aegon seemed concerned about her reaction. He grabbed Trystane's wrist as the Prince of Dorne stripped off her other stocking and barked for the others to stop joking and groping. "Let's just get her to my brother's bed before she pisses herself from fear."

There were shouts of protest and Aegon wearily ordered them away. He pulled Sansa, down to her smallclothes, to him and picked her up bridal style. "I'm king, I've got the right to touch her last before my brother beds her."

"She's the daughter of the North!" Albert Glover cried. "Let us keep her warm!"

One look from their king silenced them, though.

Sansa held back her sobs of humiliation and fear. I am a Stark of Winterfell. The king's hands seemed to burn. Pretend he's Sandor, carrying you away from the mobs. At that moment, she certainly felt as young as she had been on that day.

The others groaned, but followed their king's orders, walking behind them and continuing to joke.

"You know, in Dorne, the beddings aren't allowed to commence without the consent of the bride and groom both. Not a hand is to touch either until they beckon the guests. You could be walking to your wedding chamber in privacy, without all this mess," Aegon hissed at her.

Sansa shut her eyes tight and tried to ignore him. When she heard a collection of feminine voices, she relaxed slightly and opened her eyes. They were in one of the opulent royal bedchambers, hung with fine red silk and furnished with mahogany. Jon was being pushed onto the bed by a collection of hands that tore his undertunic off. He let it tear away, but scrambled under the covers before his smallclothes could be removed.

"Oh! He's shy!"

"No, my ladies, I just believe some things ought to be kept between a man and his lady wife," replied her husband, his tone and gaze firm and cold. The women sighed and pulled away as Aegon brought Sansa over. They declared him no fun.

The king plopped the bride at the foot of the bed sitting upright. Sansa's hands immediately went to cover her breasts as she scooted back to climb under the covers.

Aegon gazed at the couple dispassionately. "There you go, Brother. You get to return to Winterfell at last. Hopefully you won't find it too frigid."

Jon arm went around her as most of the men laughed and turned to leave. Trystane lingered for a few seconds. The king took his arm gently and the two cousins left.

It wasn't until the doors shut and the voices died away that Sansa realized she was still shaking.

Jon withdrew his arm almost at once. "I'm sorry, My Lady. I did not mean to…"

Sansa swallowed her fears and cast a kind eye upon him. Her whole attitude had to be welcoming, kind, and at ease. She had to make sure he did this. "A husband should not have to apologize for touching his lady wife."

Jon looked terrified.

We have to do this. Sansa lowered her hands, baring her breasts to him. He won't touch you unless he believes you want it.

She could make herself want him, she imagined. He wasn't hideous like Tyrion. His face was long and solemn but well formed, his cheekbones high, his lips full, and his eye dark and soulful. His hair was thick, dark, and curly. His chest and arms, marked all over with scars, were well muscled. He had an earthy, natural, masculine smell to him.

I could very easily want this man, she realized, I just need to forget what we once were to each other. She blocked out the thoughts of everyone else- the men who had stripped her, all those eyes upon her. This is not the half-brother or the boy I knew.

"You're scared," he told her.

So are you, she wanted to point out. Instead, she replied, "Of them, not you."

"Were they- Did they go too far?"

"No farther than was to be expected. It just frightened me."

"Then why did you insist upon it?"

She sighed. "To lessen doubts as to the validity of this marriage. My wedding to Tyrion had no bedding."

He swallowed. "We don't have to-"

"—We do," she insisted. She reached out tentatively and brushed his neck with her fingers. "And I want to."

He hesitated. "But you… With what you've been through…"

You don't know what I've been through. You aren't going to judge me. "Please, Jon. Don't you- Do I not please you?"

"That's not it!" He insisted, looking away guiltily. "I just don't want to use you like everyone else."

Sansa almost gave a bitter laugh. As if I'm the one being used. She hated herself. "You're not."

"I am. You should have a man you love. Not another poor political match. Tyrion at least didn't touch you-"

"-He did," Sansa confessed, her stomach twisting itself into a knot.

Jon looked at her in confusion. "But… He refused a bedding. Everyone knows you didn't consummate."

"He intended to, until the last minute. It's just instead of having me stripped by his nephew and the court, he preferred to have me strip myself as I cried in our bedchamber. And he did touch me. After he exposed himself and groped me, only then did he decide not to take my maidenhead. A man can take advantage without taking your virginity."

Jon shivered and pulled away. "All the more reason for me to leave this bed."

"No! Jon, please-!" She cursed herself for mentioning it.

He shook his head and got out, hurrying over to a desk at the far wall. He found a letter opener. "I'll cut myself, there will be blood on the sheet. They'll never know."

"They'll guess when my belly doesn't swell. Or your brother will force you to set me aside for infertility." I can't believe this. Since she was a young girl, she'd been fending off the advances of men. Now she was in bed with a husband she'd almost chosen, and she was begging him. Sansa marveled at her life.

"I won't."

"Has it ever occurred to you, Jon, that I actually want a true marriage and children of my own?" Sansa demanded. He stopped short at that. She sighed. "When I married Tyrion, I was only informed of it that very morning. I was wearing the dress before I knew. Literally. I just thought I was getting a new gown, that it was a gift from Cersei. The queen threatened to have me dragged in and forced at swordpoint. She had her handmaids grab me and keep me from running. This time, I've known for moons. I agreed, freely. I had a choice, and I chose you."

"Because you were afraid. I saw – the men at the bedding frightened you.."

"I have learnt to be wary of men, and what they want from me, yes. All men. Except you." And Willas. But he didn't need to know that. "All I want is a man I can love instead of fear. Someone who'll love me instead of just what I can give him. Is that so wrong?"

Jon dropped the knife. He gave her the kindest look. "O-of course not. But-"

Sansa got out of the bed and walked over to stand in front of him. The evening air turned her naked skin to gooseflesh. But she stood before him, stripping of her remaining stocking and smallclothes until she was completely bare. "Look at me. Please. Look at me. Don't you… Don't you think you could love me? As a husband loves his lady wife?"

Being loved by a man willing to bleed to spare you some discomfort is not a bad thing. Most men would look at her and only see their rights. Jon wanted to protect her. She nearly wept at the thought. Jon wants to protect me.

"I-I'd be good to you, Jon. I swear it. I'd be faithful and kind. I'd love you and our children with all my heart. And I'm strong. I could… I could give you plenty of children, I'm sure. I've always been healthy, I'm young. My mother gave Father five children, three were boys. All of us were healthy. I'd make sure you never regretted marrying me, I promise. Please, I just want to be loved… the way I was always promised someone would love me."

After a few awkward, gaping seconds, Sansa turned away, hugging herself, tears pricking her eyes. I'm such a fool. I'm terrible. The words she spoke, the plea she'd made… She actually meant it all. But it was wrong to ask it of Jon. It wasn't fair. She'd already pulled him into this marriage. Now she was demanding that he love her. How could he? A frightened little bird like me?A girl who he used to think of as a sister?

What am I doing? She'd utterly humiliated herself.

Footsteps. Before long, she felt the heat of his body against her back. Oh gods, now he pities me. Pity was the death of desire. She should have seduced him properly. Petyr used to walk her through ways to do it before he died. She should have smiled coyly, batted her eyelashes, touched him, touched herself.

Arms encircled her waist and pulled her close. His body was warm, his breathing heavy. His hands went to her hair and began unpinning it from its elaborate style so it tumbled down around her shoulders and neck. Relief flooded through her.

Kisses her hair, her neck, her shoulders, her cheeks followed. Both their loins seemed to stir. She turned slowly and kissed his mouth, finding it full and gentle.

Jon stroked her sides and cupped her breasts. As their tongues danced together, he backed her towards the bed. Breaking away, he smiled kindly and lay her down, moving gently over her. She parted her legs, expecting him to just take her there. Instead, he began lowering his mouth and pressing kisses to her neck, her collarbone, her breasts. When he got there, she arched her back and gasped, nipples pebbling under his mouth.

Then it went lower. His lips went to her belly, then her hips and then…

"Jon!" She grabbed his hair and pulled his head up, shocked. He'd just licked her. And though it felt lovely, it was not anything expected. "What are you- You can't…"

Grey eyes met her. "Why?"

"It's… It's not proper."

"Who says?"

Sansa gaped at him. "No… No one says. It's just… It's just not what is done."

"It's what I do. I want to please you."

A blush came to her cheeks. "It pleases me to please my lord husband."

"Tasting you would please me very much, Sansa." His voice became rough. "I want to taste you peaking against my mouth before I make love to you."

Her mouth went dry. "Oh… Okay."

She tensed up as his head dipped again. The first few licks were like a small bolts of lightning. And then… Soon she was clutching his head and rutting against his mouth. Tension built up inside her. "Oh… Oh…. Oh! OH!"

Somewhere within her, there was a breaking point. She reached it and felt the strength leave her limbs. Her body jerked. It took her a while to remember where she was or what she was doing. And then, she realized to her embarrassment, that her thighs were still gripping Jon's head like a vice. She spread them, humiliated. Then he looked up and smiled, his beard wet.

"Are you alright, My Lady?"

"Y-yes…" Sansa struggled to find her breath. "L-Lovely… D-did I hurt you?"

He laughed. "I didn't expect your legs to be that strong but… No, Sweetling. Do you want to go to sleep now?"

Sansa's stomach sank. "What? No… We have to…"

"We don't have to tonight," he insisted. Sansa's face fell. Why is he resisting this so much? With a horrible jolt a thought came to her. Is he unable?

That would just be her luck. Finally, she had a kind husband who could please her, and he couldn't work his cock. Or maybe he preferred men. What he'd just done to her seemed to imply he knew his way around a woman's parts, but maybe what he just did was easy to get right. Maybe that's why he joined the Watch.

Sansa sat up, panicking. But when she looked down, she saw more than enough evidence that her husband was both capable of and enthusiastic about enjoying her body. He still had his smallclothes on, but they were largely tented and practically bursting open. It looked painful.

Her hands went for his smallclothes, but he caught her wrist. "Sansa…"

"Why don't you want to make love to me?"

"I do. I just don't want to hurt you."

Sansa bit her lip. "Please, Jon. I'm ready."

Her husband sighed. "Lie back."

Sansa did as he asked, falling back on the bed and closing her eyes. A flutter went through her belly when she felt his weight push the mattress down. Hot breath played over her skin. Jon parted her lower lips with his fingers and kissed her full on the mouth. She could feel the tip of him brushing her entrance before slowly pushing in.

Her body stretched around him and pain hit her as something tore. She tensed, and Jon stopped moving, his breathing quick and shallow now.

He's stopping himself. Why? Sansa had known more than her fair share of men who couldn't seem to resist touching her. But he's inside me, and he's stopped. She gasped a bit, and kissed his lips. Her mouth stayed joined with his until the pain receded. Once gone, she broke away, looked into his eyes, and spoke. "Move."

At first, his pace was slow, and he handled her like she was made of glass. It didn't take long for her to get used to it. While she didn't doubt there'd be some ache later on, twinges of pleasure began to mount until it covered any discomfort. The sensation became less a matter of being invaded and more a matter of being filled. Pleasantly.

Soon, she was rolling her hips to meet his thrust and moaning. Pressure built up within her again, that same odd, twining, irresistible pressure she suddenly couldn't seem to get enough of.

Her eyes fluttered open, and Jon hovered over her, staring intently at her face. She smiled, reaching up to clutch his cheeks and pull him into another kiss. His pace picked up and Sansa came closer and closer to the edge.

She peaked once more with a loud cry, loud enough for the whole Red Keep to hear. And it didn't matter to her in the least. I hope they can all hear it. Any number of jokes would certainly be worth this. At that, she forgot about the court. She forgot about Tyrion and Aegon and Trystane, about Daenerys and her lost friends. All that existed was this odd reverie.

Even as it died down, her whole body seemed to hum pleasantly. Sansa hugged her husband close when she regained her senses. Registering what had happened, he lost that slow pace, taking his wife with wild abandon until he moaned and spent within her. Sansa's toes curled as she felt the heated liquid burst within her.

Her husband collapsed on top of her, but she didn't mind the weight. She felt warm, triumphant, and filled. Jon tried to pull away, but she hooked her legs around his hips and her arms about his back. "Stay with me," she whispered.

His hands went to her hair, stroking it adoringly. "You smell so good," he murmured.

Sansa smiled. "Thank you."

Eventually, he did pull off of her, suggesting they get under the covers. Sansa pulled herself up. All of a sudden, Jon's expression changed as his eyes fell on the covers between her legs. His mouth fell open, his eyes grew wide.

Sansa looked. Her maiden's blood left a red splatter on the cream silk coverlet. It was less than she expected: just a few splotches and smears. The coverlet would have to be patched. But otherwise, no matter. She smiled. No one will be able to deny that I am truly wed now. I'm wedded and bedded, safe.

"Is… is that your moon blood?"

"No!" She blinked at him. The idea shocked her. "Of course not. I would not schedule my wedding when I'm due to bleed."

"But then…" He looked up at her. Then he pulled her to him in a tight embrace. "Sansa…"

Her stomach sank. "Did you think I had lovers?"

"Lovers…" He pulled away and rubbed his temple. "I wouldn't care about that, Sansa. No… But I thought… I thought you'd been forced."

"Petyr Baelish almost did," Sansa admitted, "But he had to keep me a maid until I could marry Harrold Hardyng. Fortunately, he died before that could ever happen." The Royces took care of that. But she'd promised Lord Nestor long ago that that matter would remain a secret.

"And as for-?"

"—He never got more than a few kisses," Sansa interrupted, unwilling to say his name in her bedchamber. Not now. Not when she'd just experienced something loving and pleasurable and intimate. She wanted to forget him, just for a few hours. And it was the truth he hadn't ever tried to force himself on her, though he did come close to taking her to his bed. She shuddered. "That is not what prompted our wedding."

Jon looked at her with some measure of relief. "But then… Why all of this?"


End file.
